Monologue
by A 29467
Summary: Oliver reflects on his life. Angst. Not what you are expecting.


Title: Monologue

Author: A 29467

Summary: Oliver reflects on his life. Angst. Not what you are expecting.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Property of the respective owners. I'm not making any money off of it.

  
  


Monologue

~

Oliver's just Quidditch-obsessed. Oliver's great, really, beyond the whole Quidditch thing. Oliver's awesome. Oliver's carefree. Oliver's an excellent student. Oliver's a good guy. Oliver's a real Gryffindor. Oliver's always happy and nice.

  
  


That's what they say. How little they know.

  
  


I am resentful, I guess. Only a bit. Only because these Gryffindors around me were meant to be Gryffindors. They are brave, they are kind, and they have the support of their families and friends.

  
  


That's where we're different.

  
  


I do not have a mother, and I would just as soon not have a father. 

  
  


You see, Father controls me. I am his to break and bend and rearrange. His, to educate and keep and discipline and train. Nothing is mine- not from the bed I sleep on to the blood through my veins. It's all his.

  
  


He's the Ravenclaw, after all, and I'm just a lousy Gryffindor. I was supposed to be in Ravenclaw, you know. I got a licking for that, when I came home for Christmas. Father had made it clear before school started that I was to be in Ravenclaw, and I failed to obey during the Sorting.

  
  


'Yes, sir' or 'No, sir' are all I utter in the manor. I'm expected to, of course. I'm expected to be respectful and obedient, and I have found that it is better if I do what is expected of me when I am under his roof. His belt taught me that in just one night.

  
  


When we go out in public, I am to stand straight and not say a word. Walk two steps behind and one to the left, in a show of lesser rank. I am to ask no questions and show no signs of rebellion. He is my father, and it is his due respect.

  
  


I do not fail any classes, or get anything other than top place. He would not allow me to. Quidditch was a given- I am expected to be the top athlete and win every game. I am to go on to play professionally, perhaps, but more likely to work under him, as always. He could not decide for a year whether I was to be Quidditch Captain or Prefect and then Head Boy. Unfortunately for me, Professor McGonagall decided for him. Isaac Hammond was a good student, and her favorite in my class, so he was given the honors. I, on the other hand, was given my due and was sore for weeks. I can't blame her, really.

  
  


Because Quidditch was my career, I had coaches every summer for six hours a day, training. Making me run and sweat and lift and collapse into bed each night. Making me drill and toss and block without a word of complaint because my father had kindly asked them to 'tell me if he's rude or whiny, and I'll take care of it' in the way that most pureblooded fathers do with their sons even now. I gain muscle each summer but lose a part of myself, the part that makes me love the sport for what it is.

  
  


Then, back at school, I am to win every game. Until my fifth year, which was my fourth on the team and first as captain, it was an unattainable goal. I came back to the manor for breaks and I was punished and trained harder, driven to perfection. When Harry Potter came in my fifth year, and joined the team, it was the best year of my life. There was a note of pride in my father's tone, and there was less that I had to be disciplined for. I was trained that summer, but it was a more leisurely schedule then the other summers. 

  
  


When we lost that game in my seventh year, because of the Dementors, I knew that Father would not understand. I went to the showers and stood in the water, until the scalding hot felt lukewarm and my tears were gone, no traces on my seared skin. Strong males do not cry. 

  
  


When the next break came, Father did not understand, but he endeavored to make me understand the importance of winning.

  
  


Now, as the war looms, I am to be an Auror. I am almost eighteen, but in his family males are boys until twenty, and therefore in need of strong guidance. I submit because there is nowhere else for me to go and nothing else for me to do. If I rebelled and tried out for Quidditch, he would sabotage the results and have me shamed in public. It is his way and he has been clear to me about it. I will wait it out, one Auror amongst many.

  
  


If I don't manage to die before the end of the war, he may be angry because I will not have made him the grieving father of a war hero, a celebrity himself. If I do die, he may be angry because I will not have become one of the brave survivors, bringing honor to our name.

  
  


The name of Wood. Strong, resilient, tough. Able to beat and be beaten. Able to be cut down and molded before being put up again. Able to be manipulated beyond survival. Able to be used.

  
  


I am out in the yard. My N.E.W.T. results have just come in....I saw the owl fly into the post-room upstairs. I stare at the sky, suspecting what is to come.

  
  


Sure enough, he appears at the top of the stair, dressed in black, brown leather in his hand. My results must not have been good enough.

  
  


"Get in the house, boy." His voice is rough, his eyes hard, commanding, unforgiving.

"Yes, sir." I hasten to obey, the belt in his hand brushing against my leg as I pass him on the steps, a taste of what is to come.


End file.
